


A Pint of Trouble

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hobbits, LOTR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-04
Updated: 2008-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:29:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings: Very silly. Involves a hobbit burping contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pint of Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the spring of 1392. Pippin is about a year and a half old, Merry has just turned 10, and Frodo is 23.

"Mama," says Pippin, and Eglantine scoops him up into her capacious embrace.

"Hello, love," she says, and the lad pats her face with his small hand.

"Mama," he says again, solemnly. "Papa. Puh. Pim. Mama."

"Yes, my darling child, Mama, Papa, Pearl, Pimmie. And who’s your other sister?"

"Meeee!"

Merry giggles, standing beside the two of them in the entry to Great Smials. "I’m not your sister, Pip." The ten-year-old hobbit reaches up to tickle Pippin’s swinging foot. "I’m your cousin." Sunlight streams in the open doors, and birdsong seems to call the children outside.

"_Vinca_ is your other sister," says Eglantine in a sing-song voice, the voice adults use to tell a child something they know the child already knows.

Pip puts his hand over her mouth. "Mee," he says firmly, shaking his head to deny the existence of Pervinca, who he refers to, when he must, as "Bicca."

Eglantine sighs and pulls her head back to look at him. "You’re a lovely lad, but I wish you would begin to talk - other than names, that is. Those you have down pat." She blows a gentle raspberry against his cheek and Pippin giggles, then wiggles to be let down. She lowers him and he immediately attaches himself to Merry, wrapping his arms firmly around the older lad’s legs.

"Mee!" he says, laying claim to this most-loved fellow creature.

"Yes, dear, that’s your Mee," says Eglantine. She looks at Merry. "Where is Frodo? Isn’t he supposed to be watching you?"

"Oh, he is," says Merry hastily. He clears his throat and jiggles from foot to foot. "We just came in to wash Pippin’s face and, and, and get my walking stick - we’re going for a, a ramble. With Frodo." A flush stains his cheeks and reddens his ears, and Eglantine Took surveys him shrewdly. There is a pause, into which Pippin chants: "Mama, Papa, Puh, Pim, Mee, Fro," in a distracted way, one arm still tight round Merry’s leg, one hand twisting in his chestnut curls, his green eyes half-closed in reverie.

Elgantine sighs again. "All right then," she says, thinking the lads can’t get into too much trouble on a sunny afternoon. "Just you make sure to be home for supper. It's Auntie Clemmie’s turn in the kitchen."

"Yes, Aunt Teeny," says Merry. He unwraps Pippin from his legs and leads him away, grabbing for a walking stick as they trot out the door.

"Mama, Papa, Puh, Pim, Mee, FRO!" shouts Pippin by way of farewell, and Eglantine waves and vanishes into the depths of the smial.

"That was a close one," says Merry as they head round the corner for the barn. "Just as well you can’t talk, yet, Pip - it’s bad enough when I try to lie, you’d be hopeless at it."

"Mee," agrees Pippin solemnly, legs churning to keep up with Merry.

Frodo is waiting in the barn. "Whatever took you so long?" he asks impatiently. "And why did you bring your walking stick? It’s not that far." Merry tosses the stick into a dark corner by the door and tells Frodo how they were almost caught. "Good work," says Frodo seriously. "Now let’s go." And off they set, up to no good on a sunny spring afternoon.

~*~

The three hobbits blink in the cool darkness of _The Happy Swan_; the door swings shut behind them and Merry jumps at the sound. He had been carrying Pippin, whose short legs proved too slow for Frodo’s taste, and now he sets him down with relief - the youngster may appear small, but he weighs down a lad surprisingly, especially with his constant wiggling.

No one looks at the three, as though the appearance of two seriously underage hobbits is unworthy of note in this particular inn. Frodo tugs at his belt nervously and runs one hand through his dark hair. "All right, you lot," he says, crouching and looking at his two cousins. "Don’t draw attention to yourselves. Let’s just go... sit at the bar."

Pippin’s eyes have not yet adjusted to the dim light, and he runs into approximately thirty-seven chairs and tables in his haste to get to the high stools that line the bar. Frodo covers his eyes with his hands for a moment, then follows, threading his way more decorously through the maze of furniture. Merry walks at his heels, looking around wide-eyed. He has never been inside a tavern before, and he is fascinated by the sawdust on the floor and the hard-used chairs and tables. He stops to read a rhyme carved into one tabletop: "There once was a hobbit named Frell, he lived all alone in a dell. He stubbed his big toe, and shouted ‘Oh no!’, and then shouted ‘Oh, bloody -’"

"Thank you!" says Frodo loudly, yanking Merry away by his braces. "Little pitchers have big ears," he hisses, glancing pointedly toward Pippin, who is trying to scale a bar stool. Frodo lets go of Merry and leaps forward to catch the toddler just as he plunges head first toward the floor.

"Oh, Pip never says anything but names, anyhow," says Merry sulkily. Frodo glares at him and he subsides, knowing this visit will be a short one should he irritate his elder cousin.

A moment later they are all seated, Frodo trying to look casual, Merry clutching a squirming Pippin in his lap. The bartender comes over. He is one of the fattest persons Merry has ever seen, and he puffs as he stops in front of them, swabbing his face with the same cloth he used to wipe glasses with at the other end of the bar. "Good afternoon, gentlehobbits," he says breathlessly. "What can I get you to drink?"

Frodo examines the room. There are only three others there at this hour; two gaffers have a game of chess going beside one of the few windows, and a lone hobbit sits with a tankard between his elbows, staring moodily into its depths. "How about a fizzy lemon for these two to share," he says. "And a pint for me."

"Coming along," says the bartender. He ducks beneath the bar; Pippin leans forward in Merry’s lap to see where the hobbit has disappeared to, and then rears back in surprise when he bobs back up. "Pim!" Pippin exclaims.

The bartender smiles, his eyes vanishing as his cheeks plump up. "Pim to you, too, young master," he says, and he sets a sparkling glass before Merry and Pippin. "Enjoy." He steps away to pull Frodo’s drink.

Merry holds the glass carefully so that Pippin can have a drink: His first ever taste of fizzy lemon, Merry thinks, should be special. The toddler sips cautiously and wrinkles his nose at the bubbles. "Vicca," he says, then the sweetness sinks in: "Mee!"

Merry and Frodo laugh, and the bartender sets a tankard in front of Frodo. "Here’s your pint, sir. That’ll be two bits - or shall I start a tab?"

"I think a tab will be fine," says Frodo grandly. He leans against the back of the stool and lets his gaze wander over the room. "Quiet afternoon, eh?"

"Oh, aye, it should pick up in just a little," says the bartender. "I usually get a fair number in once the fields are tended to, and before supper starts a-calling ‘em home." He wipes his glass and looks carefully at Frodo. "You aren’t from around here."

Frodo smiles. "No, I live over Bywater way, near Hobbiton. Just visiting family." He gestures toward Merry and Pippin, who have already lowered the level of their shared drink significantly. Pippin lets out a belch that is surprising in its size, and Merry shrieks with laughter. "Merry! Pippin!" admonishes Frodo, but the tavern keeper laughs.

"Ah, think naught of it," he says. "I’ve heard worse before, though not from such a wee lad." He winks and moves away down the bar, still smiling.

Merry sees his chance and seizes it. "Listen, Pip," he says, and takes an enormous gulp of the fizzy lemon. He swallows it down and sits for a moment, waiting; then suddenly erupts into a prodigious burp. Even Frodo cannot stifle a grin at Pippin’s thrilled look of awe.

"That was nothing," he says confidently, and picks up his mug of ale. He drains half the glass in one pull, and a moment later makes a sound which can only be described as unusual in volume, length, and depth.

Now Pippin, Merry, and Frodo are all giggling, and Merry and Frodo continue their efforts, rewarded by Pippin’s gleeful cries of "Fro!" and "Mee!" There is a pause when their glasses are empty, and Frodo gasps for breath and gestures to the barman for refills.

"Another fizzy lemon," he says, "and another pint." The barman sets the tankard down with a thump and Frodo lifts it, still grinning at his cousins.

"Pint," says Pippin suddenly, clearly, into the silence.

Frodo chokes on his ale and Merry stares down at the hobbitling in his lap. "What did you say?" he asks.

"Pint," chirps the lad. "Mama, Papa, Puh, Pim, Bicca, Mee, Fro, pint!" He points at Frodo’s mug. "Pint! Pint pint pint pint pint."

Merry and Frodo stare at one another, eyes stretched wide. Just then the door to the pub swings open and folk begin streaming in. They crowd up to the bar and Pippin stops lilting his new word to gape at them, his little mouth open in wonder. Merry is still staring at Frodo, and so sees his cousin's face go the color of cheese as someone directly behind Merry roars, "Frodo Baggins, what in the name of all that is holy are you doing in this house with those children?"

Merry feels his own innards curdle as he recognizes the voice. It is his and Frodo's uncle, and Pippin's father: Paladin Took.

"Turn around there, young master Brandybuck," booms Paladin, and Merry slowly twists in his seat to face him. Pippin sees his father and grins with delight. "Papa!" he crows. "Papa, Mama, Puh, Pim -" Merry claps one hand hastily over the child's mouth.

"What the devil are you doing here?" says Mr. Took, glaring at Frodo while reaching for Pippin. "Outside, _now_."

Pip pulls Merry's hand off his mouth and pushes his father's hands away. "Mee!" he insists, and Paladin frowns but leaves him in Merry's arms. Merry prays that Pippin will not display his new word for his father; Frodo slouches from his chair. He stops to dig three bits from his pocket, and, leaving them on the bar, follows Paladin's stout back through the crowd and out the door. Merry, carrying Pippin, trudges behind at a funereal pace.

In the blinding sunlight outside, Paladin turns to face down the miscreants. "What were you thinking?" he growls into Frodo's downcast face. "These two are _far_ too young to be in a place such as that. It's dirty, the folk use foul language, and the drink is no good to boot! There'll be enough time for the lad to act like a hooligan when he's older, no need to start him quite so small." His voice stings, and Frodo looks up, hurt.

"He and Merry just had a fizzy lemon, Uncle Paladin," he says. "I would never let them come to any harm!"

"Never let them come to any harm?" bellows Pippin's father, and one finger shoots toward Pippin, whose lower lip has begun to tremble. "Can you imagine the harm they'll come to when his mother finds out they were in _The Happy Swan_?! That harm will last a lifetime, it will. Especially Peregrin, considering how Teeny feels about even me sneaking down the pub for an occasional ale -"

"She feels strongly about it, does she?" says Frodo suddenly. There is a new glint in his blue eyes, and Merry goggles up at him.

"Heavens, yes!" cries Paladin, throwing his hands into the air. "She throws a fit every time I so much as look at a tavern..." His voice trails away and he narrows his eyes at Frodo, who regards him with one eyebrow cocked. Paladin begins to stammer: "So, so, so, I think it would be, erm, er, best -"

"- Mayhap it would be best if Aunt Eglantine never heard that Pippin and Merry saw the inside of _The Happy Swan_?" suggests Frodo sweetly.

Paladin's shoulders slump and he chews on his lower lip for a moment before answering. "Well. Ahem. Yes. Perhaps that would be best."

Frodo looks down at Merry. "What do _you_ think?" Merry nods his head fervently, curls flying. Pippin watches it all, one baby finger twining through his hair again, sitting like a sack on Merry's hip.

"All right, then," rumbles Paladin weakly. "Get off home, then, and let's not hear a word about it." He glances sharply at them, one at a time. "Not. One. Word." He looks as though he might say more, but closes his mouth and stumps back into the tavern.

Merry hands Pippin to Frodo ("Fro!" squeals the youngster, and tugs on Frodo's hair) and they plod toward Great Smials in silence. Halfway there, Pippin begins his name-chant again: "Mama, Papa, Puh, Pim, Bicca, Mee, Fro," he sings to himself, and Merry and Frodo, recovering now, discuss their close call over his cheerful burble.

~*~

Thirty hobbits sit down to supper that night. Pippin is growing tired, and it is Merry's job to entertain him and convince him to eat; much further up the table, Frodo sits chattering with the tween-agers, and even further up, Paladin sits to his brother Ferumbras's right; Eglantine is beside her husband, and she occasionally peers down the length of the board at her daughters and son.

"Bicca," shouts Pippin, as he usually does when annoyed, and he thrusts the offered spoonful of food away. His face is turning red and Merry knows he is about to let out an ear-splitting shriek.

"Let's say your words," Merry suggests brightly, despairing of distracting the cranky toddler. "Mama, Papa, Pearl, Pimmie, Vinca, Merry, Frodo!"

Pippin considers this, decides it will be fun, and so begins chanting in his clear, shrill little voice: "Mama, Papa, Puh, Pim, Bicca, Mee, Fro!" He does this over and over, getting louder and louder, and Merry looks desperately up at Aunt Teeny for help. She smiles at him and begins to rise. A lull in the conversation falls just then, and Pippin remembers something.

"Pint!" he shouts gleefully, eager to show off his new word. "Pint, pint, pint pint pint! Mama Papa Puh Pim Bicca Mee Fro _pint_!" Frodo spills his mug of punch all over the table just as Paladin drops a saucer onto the floor.

Eglantine Took stops where she is and turns slowly to look at her husband. He has half-risen, but sinks back into his chair and offers her a sickly smile and a very, very small shrug.

She glares at him for a long moment; silence has descended over the hall, and the drops of Frodo's punch are audible as they drip to the floor, one by one. Every hobbit watches with bated breath to see what Eglantine will do.

They don't have long to wait; she marches down the table and snags Frodo by one ear as she passes, dragging him whimpering from his chair; without pause she treats Merry in the same manner. She lets them both go for a moment as she lifts Pippin from his seat, then, still without a word, she marches out of the hall, followed disconsolately by Merry and Frodo.

Paladin looks around at the ogling faces of his kin, lastly meeting his brother's twinkling eyes. He shrugs once more. "I told them," he mourns: "'Not one more word about it,' I said. 'Not one word.'" He sighs loud and long. "I think my wife will have more than one word to say," and he leaves amid a buzz of laughter.

 

~ _end_ ~


End file.
